


Meals For the Dead

by BawdyBean



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Discussions of Past Character Deaths, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Mental Health in the Elderly, Survivor Guilt, What you don't know hurts, Whump, Witcher Whump Week (The Witcher), oblivious Witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27114685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BawdyBean/pseuds/BawdyBean
Summary: Vesemir tries his hardest to never to forget the memories and faces of every witcher who died in the massacre at Kaer Morhen. It takes a toll on him but to Vesemir it is worth the price he pays.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 25
Collections: Witcher Whump Week 2020





	Meals For the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> For witcher whump week on pillowforts witcher community, day one prompt: survivor's guilt.
> 
> CW warnings for this fic: eating disorders, discussions of the deaths of instructors and students in the massacre at Kaer Morhen

It started with Gwen and Gweld. Of course there was nothing Vesemir could have done for Gwen, her own faulty steps had taken her to her death on The Killer two summers before. 

But Gweld. 

By the summer after his sister’s death he was bright, bubbly, and quick to laugh again. Nothing could dull his shine for life. Except the Salamandra’s blade and Vesemir’s cowardice. The more Vesemir thought of how he’d been shielded by the bodies of his fallen comrades the less hungry he felt. 

Pushing away his bowl of rutabaga stew, Vesemir walked away. Into the kitchen where he leaned on a cask of ale, mug shaking in his hand. Even that was a sustenance he didn’t deserve. Instead he made his way to the rain barrel and filled it there, drinking down the cold clear water.

The next morning the uneaten stew stared at Vesemir, shaming him for his waste. He took the bowl and threw the cold stew into the yard for the hens to peck at. The sounds of them squabbling over the feast filled his ears on the way back to the kitchen.

Vesemir’s stomach churned on the stone ground porridge. The dregs of last winter’s stock. This summer he was working hard to gather and hunt. Trade in the lowland towns for the grain that would get his boys through winter. He always worked hard to make sure they did n0t go hungry through winter, that was his duty now. Feed his boys, care for them. The few that were left.

Vesemir jolted upright in his bed. Arm wrapped around his stomach against the ache. Deep and gnarling. It had been Varin this time. The old swords instructor had worked with Vesemir for ages. He was a bastard who gloried in the pain of the fledglings. Said it would make them strong, and for a moment Vesemir had been _glad_ to see his face alight.

The mage’s flame had caught Varin unaware from the side while he fought head on with his foe. But the revenge was swiftly soured by Osbert’s screams of agony as he too was engulfed, the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh fast overpowered by the acrid tint of charring. 

Vesemir had been unable to shake the images from his mind of his cohorts bodies turning to blackened ash before his eyes. Lunch and then dinner had passed without meaning as he worked tirelessly through the day to ensure his boys would be fed when they returned in the fall. 

By midsummer Vesemir had come to think of it as his penance. A way to remember those he’d been unable to save. Of course some would tell him he had tried, that he had fallen among his friends, unconscious and left for dead, only to drag himself from the pile of bodies days later. But Vesemir knew the truth. He was too weak, he let them die. The burden of remembering their names should lie with him.

Somehow it was always easier when he was hungry, the pain of it cleared his mind, until there was no pain at all, only the clarity of knowing he remembered.

So every summer Vesemir saw the Wolves of Kaer Morhen off on the Path. Packed their bags full with every last bit in the larder. Assured them that it was spring and he would restock easily. And then he picked, and dried. Pickled and cured. But more and more as spring stretched on he skipped his meals, one for Gweld, and now one for Gwen too. He never should have stood by while they did these things. Never should have participated in them.

Lunch and dinner for Varin. Vesemir should have had the courage to stop the old bastard himself. It was always his cowardice that got him wasn’t it? The wolves he kept now, they were better than him, he hoped. None would bring a new child into this life. Eskel had proven that.

Osbert, Vesemir remembered him for three whole days.

Sorel and Clovis. The goats ate, so did the hens, but not Vesemir. He walked listlessly around the keep, only the ghosts of the past to keep him company. And there were _so_ many. The dry moat was full of them. Vesemir spent his mornings and evenings fishing, the right way, not like Lambert. This way took time, time he used to think about the dead he couldn’t save.

Barrels of salted fish stacked high in the larder. Salt pork, dried venison, summer sausage from a bear, all of it filled the space to the brim. The journey to the village the last time had been a trial of it’s own. One Vesemir gladly undertook. Returning with burlap sacks full of barley, wheat, and corn.

Under his armor Vesemir’s ribs rubbed against his brigandine, catching on the small steel plates sewn inside.

Aubry, Gardis, and Hemminks left Vesemir retching his guts into the outhouse. Even the smell of food turned his stomach after so long without. The leaves hadn’t started to turn yet but the nights were getting cold. Vesemir had woken to frost on the flagstones the morning before, and he knew he needed to ready himself to take care of his boys.

It would never do to let them see him like this, arms withered to the bone. Face drawn in and sallow. His feet ached with the swelling from the water he drank.

It was worth it, to never forget their comrades though. So that Vesemir might never fail them in the same way. Bit by bit he sat by the kitchen hearth and sipped mushroom and venison broth like a sickling who’d barely survived The Trials. 

Vesemir knew his body could take this. It had never failed him, year after year that he had remembered the fallen. Within a week he was able to stomach a soupy weak pea porridge, and a few days after that real stew.

Training nonstop on the dummies in the yard Vesemir worked himself back up to fighting strength, and when the first snows fell in Kaer Morhen, weeks before they would fall in the valleys, Vesemir was ready.

It was Lambert who arrived first that year. He hated the cold Vesemir knew, but not as much as he hated the Path he’d been put on.

“Still haunting this old place I see.” Lambert snorted at Vesemir in the main hall when he brushed by. “And still haven’t found a way to make it warmer. It’s fucking cold in here.” There was a long pause full of unsaid things. “Nice to see you haven’t changed a bit since last winter.”

“There’s salt pork and potato chowder for dinner. Fresh bread. And a blanket by the kitchen hearth for you Lambert, welcome back.” _I’m glad to see you’re alive._


End file.
